


God Rest Ye Merry, Supernatural Entities

by hcsvntdracones



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Gen, M/M, Meet the Family, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-24 16:01:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21960604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hcsvntdracones/pseuds/hcsvntdracones
Summary: Adam invites Crowley and Aziraphale to the Young home for Christmas, as his 'uncles'. It is an odd sort of day for all involved.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 124





	God Rest Ye Merry, Supernatural Entities

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to Maddie Fangirl_squee, for reading this and encouraging me to finish and post it.
> 
> Merry Christmas to all!

The wisest thing, they figure, will be to keep far, far away from Adam Young entirely. Let his influences stay as they’ve been for the first eleven years of his life: neither particularly demonic nor particularly angelic. Just particularly human. It’s safer, absolutely, and might make all the difference when it comes to avoiding another Armageddon. This plan seems to be going just fine, until a bit of post arrives. It’s addressed: 

  
_The man in the tan kind of suit_  
_a big old ~~burnt down~~ bookshop I think_  
_London_

Even more unnerving is that it arrives to the cottage that they’ve started renting in the South Downs, with seemingly no trouble whatsoever. 

It’s an invitation to Christmas dinner. Adam’s written, in the sort of big, sloppy, laborious writing that eleven-year-olds tend to have: 

_I don’t know exactly who you both are. But I figure you helped me, and everyone else, as well. And it seems like you’re all on your own. Anathema says you’re a good sort (in a way), and she’s reliable, for a witch. My mum always cooks to much, and then she always complains about it, since it’s just us three. There’ll be crackers, and trifle, and I think you should come._

_Thanks,_

_Adam Young_

_P.S. Come early, we have dinner very early on Christmas!_

He’s included his address. As if they would’ve forgotten it. 

-

Crowley doesn’t celebrate Christmas. Aziraphale does, but not in human ways… After all, he was around for the actual Birth (if not _there_ there, that’d been Gabriel), so he knows it certainly wasn’t in December, and that it didn’t involve pine trees, or paper crowns, or fairy lights. 

But still. There are a lot of lovely things that human beings do around Christmastime, and a feeling in the air of good will towards men, which Aziraphale has always relished (at least since it came into fashion). He’s never done a Christmas with a family, he’s always just enjoyed the feelings of devotion and merriment and love adrift in the cold winter air. He suspects it might be like the difference between clutching a cup of tea between cold hands and sinking into a hot bath. He finds he rather likes the idea. 

-

Which is, in the end, how they find themselves standing outside the front door of the Young family’s small home in Lower Tadfield, shifting from foot to foot, and somewhat dreading what awaits them inside. It’s the first Christmas in the past dozen or so that there hasn’t been snow in Oxfordshire, though, and that feels like a good sign. 

Crowley is the one to take the leap and ring the bell. Mr. Young— as blustering and ridiculous as ever, with his out-of-time mustache and cardigan— answers. 

“Hello?” he says, perturbed but not entirely impolite, “Do we… know you?” 

“We were invited,” Aziraphale replies, “We’re…” 

“Uncles.” Crowley interrupts. “Adam’s uncles.” Aziraphale’s eyes go wide, a sputtering sort of disbelief. 

“Yes. Erm.” He clears his throat. “Yes.” 

“Goodness,” says Mr. Young, nearly as taken aback as Aziraphale had been. “Deirdre never mentioned a brother! Much less that he was… married!” 

Crowley offers a thin sort of smile. 

“It’s been quite a while.” he allows, remembering that mild evening just a bit over eleven years ago. The sounds of screaming had echoed through the halls of the convent, even if he’d never actually laid eyes on the woman herself. Mr. Young seems to take this as confirmation that there is some bad blood between the siblings, and clears his throat. 

“I, erm…” Mr. Young hesitates, awkward, “So sorry. What were your names, again?” 

“Crowley,” Crowley supplies. “And he’s Aziraphale.” 

“Goodness,” Mr. Young chuckles. “ _Aziraphale_. Can’t have been easy in the schoolyard with a name like that.” 

“No worse than Warlock,” Crowley grins. Aziraphale elbows him, a flush brightening across his cheeks 

“Pardon?” 

“Inside joke.” 

“Ha.” Mr. Young says aloud, rather than actually laughing. “Right, well. This way. We’ve just been tidying up after all the excitement.” 

He leads them into the sitting room, where Mrs. Young and Adam are chatting. She is clearing up colorful paper and ribbons, and he is playing with a gift he’d just opened— a little robot, by the looks of it. Dog sleeps beside him. 

“Deirdre,” says Mr. Young, “these are Adam’s uncles. Apparently he invited them. This is _Aziraphale_ , and… erm…” Mr. Young stops short, his mind having latched onto the strange name and lost the more ordinary one. 

“Crowley,” Crowley supplies again, smiling one of his most charming, sharp-toothed smiles. 

“You came!” Adam exclaims, looking up from his new toy. He’s as mop-topped and beatific-looking as he’d been in the summer, still with that glimmer of mischief in his eyes, even in his astonishment. He doesn’t jump up to embrace them, which is honestly a relief. 

“Aziraphale,” Mrs. Young repeats, eyeing her husband a bit confusedly as he takes their guests’ coats and leaves to go and hang them up. “I had no idea your family were so religious!” 

“Oh!” Aziraphale says, frowning and glancing back at Crowley, then at Mrs. Young. “I… suppose one could say that.” 

“I never even knew Arthur _had_ a brother,” Mrs. Young marvels, more to herself than to anyone else. “Nor that he had a husband!” she adds, turning to look at Crowley. “You must think us terribly rude, not to have visited in all these years!” 

“Not at all, Mrs. Young.” Aziraphale says, utterly gracious. It’s the sort of thing that might’ve made Crowley’s skin crawl, once upon a time. Now he finds it oddly… charming? Is that the word he wants? The ridiculous, idiotic _Aziraphale-ness_ of it all makes his heart thump a little more intently, whatever emotion that might imply. He’d rather not interrogate right now. He’s deeply thankful for his dark glasses, and the way they always seem to save him from broadcasting his most ludicrous feelings to the world at large, even when it’s only Mrs. Young. 

“Don’t be silly. You’re my brother-in-law, you can call me Deirdre!” Mrs. Young says, smiling and playfully swatting at Aziraphale’s shoulder. 

“Deirdre, then.” Aziraphale’s face is pinkening again. He paws gently at his shoulder where she’d hit him, as if still pondering what it is that’d just happened. This, too, makes something in Crowley’s heart clench. 

“Have you two been together long?” Mrs. Young asks, smiling at them both. 

“ _Mum_!” Adam protests, seemingly embarrassed. 

“Oh!” Aziraphale splutters slightly, “Well—” 

“Since the dawn of time, just about,” Crowley fills in, smiling lazily. Adam rolls his eyes, but Mrs. Young laughs. 

“You’ll have to tell me how you met,” she says. 

“It’s rather a long story,” Aziraphale is saying, as Mr. Young re-enters the room. 

“What’s a long story?” he asks, leaning in to kiss Deirdre on the temple. 

“How they met!” Mrs. Young says, grinning. “They were just about to tell us.” 

“Oh, erm. Well,” Aziraphale stammers, “I suppose… like you mentioned, my family… _our_ family is… very religious.” He seems off-put by that phrasing, but he pushes forward. “And I was trying very hard to do all the right things, to be everything they expected of me. Keep on the straight and narrow, as it were.” 

Crowley snickers. “And you thought I was just some trouble-making, rabble-rousing nogoodnik.” 

“You were, and you are.” Aziraphale insists, all mostly-fake snobbery. 

Crowley grins, impossibly bright. There’s an earnestness that isn’t always there, and Aziraphale looks away, flushing. Crowley picks up the thread of the story from where it’s been dropped it unceremoniously on the floor. 

“Well, we worked in the same place, got to talking—” 

“More like you wouldn’t leave me alone—” 

“Oh, _please_ ,” Crowley scoffs. 

“Mum,” Adam interrupts. “May I be excused?” 

“Be a good host, Adam!” His mother scolds, “After all, _you_ invited them.” 

Adam heaves a great, pre-teen sigh. 

“CanIofferyousometea?” he asks, the weight of his need to leave the room so much greater than the manners his parents have imparted upon him. 

“That would be lovely,” Aziraphale says. 

“We’ll help,” Crowley offers, getting up to follow Adam into the kitchen. 

-

As soon as they’re out of earshot, Aziraphale hisses at Crowley, horrified. 

“ _Uncles_!” 

“Well, I couldn’t very well say ‘godfathers,’ could I? They _picked_ those!” 

“You could’ve told the truth!” 

“Oh, sure. ‘Hello, we’re some of the strange adults your son collected over the summer, no need to worry about that!’ That would’ve gone over a treat!” 

They bicker while Adam makes tea. At his feet, Dog whines, hoping for a snack. 

“Did you bring anything?” Adam asks, after a moment, halting the argument in its tracks. 

“…What?” Crowley asks, interrupting himself mid-rant. 

“You’re s’posed to bring a gift when you come to someone’s house for Christmas.” 

“You… want a gift?” Aziraphale asks. 

“Not for _me_!” Adam exclaims, flabbergasted. “I just got a new skateboard, and a robot, and a mini-record player, _and_ a new computer game! You’re supposed to bring something grown-up and boring for _them_!” 

Crowley and Aziraphale gape for a moment or two. 

“We didn’t…” 

“Y-you… you didn’t mention—” 

“I thought you _knew_! That’s just polite!” 

“I can… I can pop out and get… something.” Crowley flounders. The shops will all be closed. They were all closed in London, never mind Tadfield. 

“I’ll go.” Aziraphale says, bristling with nervous energy. “I can miracle something up.” 

“Right.” Crowley nods. “Good idea.” 

“And you’ve _got_ to take off the dark glasses,” Adam continues. “They’ll already be talking about how it’s so strange and rude you’re wearin’ ‘em inside.” 

“They’d think me much stranger and _ruder_ if I took them off.” Crowley shoots back. Adam shrugs, and goes to carry the little tray of five cups of tea into the living room and then, on second thought, grabs the Quality Street as well, and balances the tray on top of the tin, carefully but haphazardly, in the manner of young boys the world over. Crowley scoops the tea tray up and away from Adam. 

“Just asking for trouble,” he scolds, jokingly. 

-

“—Those _glasses_.” Mr. Young is whispering to his wife, when they come back through. 

“Shh!” Deirdre shushes him. They look guilty. 

“Adam mentioned you might think they were a bit odd,” Crowley concedes, placing the tray of tea on the coffee table. “Sorry about that. I’ve got a condition with my eyes, can’t take ‘em off.” The condition was _they are yellow and have slit pupils and that tends to unnerve people_ , but there was no need for them to know that bit. Mr. Young has the grace to at least look embarrassed. Mrs. Young busies herself with the tea, while Adam pries the lid off the Quality Street, and goes digging for the pink and purple ones. 

“I apologize,” Mr. Young tuts, “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. You’re… you’re family, after all.” 

Crowley can’t stop himself from beaming at that. Mr. Young’s discomfort fills the room so palpably it’s funny, but also… well, it’s been a while since Crowley’s heard that type of sentiment, even with as awkward as it sounds coming from Mr. Young. It’s not the sort of thing they say in Hell, and it’s not the sort of thing anyone had ever _meant_ in Heaven. At least not for him. Mr. Young smiles back, wan, and Crowley realizes after a moment that he’s probably crossed over into the sort of smile that tends to give people an unnerving sense of _fangs_. 

When Aziraphale comes back inside, he is carrying a bottle of wine. There’s an enormous bow around its neck. 

“So sorry,” he says, holding the bottle out like a sommelier would, for the Youngs to inspect the label. “We realized we must’ve forgotten this in the car. Just a little something for you two.” 

“Oh!” Mrs. Young exclaims, taking the bottle gently. “You shouldn’t have!” 

Aziraphale shoots Crowley a deeply meaningful look out of the corner of his eye. The meaning seems to be mostly _?????_. 

“We’ll have to have this with dinner,” Mr. Young says, smiling politely. 

“Yes, thank you so much!” His wife agrees. Aziraphale relaxes some. 

It is an impossibly rare and absurdly prized (not to mention priced) vintage. The Youngs have no idea what they’re getting into. Angelic tastes and all. 

“You’re very welcome,” Aziraphale says. He’s practically preening. 

-

The rest of the morning passes in similar manner. Eventually the Young parents tell Adam to show his guests around the area a bit. So they go for a walk, Adam pointing out Wensleydale, Pepper, and Brian’s houses as they go. Brian's is covered in garish blinking lights, and Wensleydale’s has a sedate little manger scene in the garden. Pepper’s is absolutely as-usual, with no seasonal decorations at all because, Adam explains, her mother doesn’t hold with Christianity, in all its patriarchal and colonialist nonsense. They both get a bit of a laugh out of that because… well, neither do they, really. The various sects and denominations of Christianity (and Judaism, and Islam. Most religions with devils and angels, really.) have all been attempts to hold with _them_ , really, not vice versa. 

“Was it… real?” Adam asks eventually, when they’ve been walking for quite a while. His hands are balled up, so that they stay warm inside the sleeves of his coat, and his cheeks and nose have grown red from the cold. Dog is several yards ahead of them, marking his territory on one of R.P. Tyler’s apple trees. 

Crowley and Aziraphale exchange a look. This is exactly the type of conversation they’d been relying on not coming up, by the sheer force of English Politeness. They should’ve known that wouldn’t apply to Adam. 

“What precisely… do you remember?” Aziraphale asks, cautiously. 

“You had… wings.” Adam frowns. “And my dad was there, but it wasn’t _my dad_ , it was someone else. Someone terrible. And then it became _my dad_ again.” He scuffs the toe of his trainer on the ground, not meeting either of their eyes. “There was a lady, but she was you, actually? Or… she was you _and_ her, both at once. And there was a weird old man, and Anathema and her boyfriend, Newt. And Pepper and Them… and some other people, I think? Some of them were a bit scary, but now I can’t… really remember what it was that scared me about them. Mostly… I think I was angry. I was really, really angry. But now it feels like a bad dream. Like I woke up, and it all got blurred. So… was it real?” 

Aziraphale slumps slightly, a marionette with its strings cut, round-shoulder in his despair and uncertainty. Beside him, Crowley sighs a deep, full-bodied sigh, and pinches the bridge of his nose. His dark glasses rest atop his knuckles as he shuts his eyes tight and thinks for a moment, his whole body thrumming with energy. 

“Yes.” He says, finally. He lets the glasses fall to hide his eyes again, and folds his arms, pulling them tight around himself. The admission digs at him. He sets his jaw as he continues, “It _was_ real.” Anger begins to lick at the edges of his voice, a fire that he’d thought was long ago burnt out. “My… _people_ thought that they could use you as a pawn in a great bloody game of… of… of inter-dimensional poker. Use you to destroy the world. And it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t _right_. You’re just a kid.” 

“A pawn in poker?” Adam asks, smiling a little. 

“Oi!” Crowley admonishes him for interrupting. Adam laughs, though, and Crowley’s tone is less tense when he continues. “The _point_ is, you did something none of them… none of _us_ thought you would. Or could, for that matter.” Crowley half-smiles. “You chose for yourself, and you chose the world. Not power, or frustration, or destruction, or control. Just the world. As it is, and as it could be.” 

“Like we did,” Aziraphale adds, sounding hoarse. He leans against the split-rail fence that surrounds R.P. Tyler’s property, and meets neither of their eyes. 

“Was that great big flaming sword _really_ yours?” Adam asks, next. Aziraphale gives a burst of surprised laughter. 

“It was.” He sounds almost on the verge of tears. Adam looks uncertain, the way children tend to be on the odd occasion that an adult has a strong emotion in front of them. Much less an emotion they don’t quite know how to parse, or where to place. Behind his dark glasses, Crowley’s eyes are soft, but he holds back. This moment is between Aziraphale and Adam, now. 

“It’s… okay,” Adam says eventually, patting Aziraphale on the shoulder, tender and clumsy in his kindness. “It all turned out okay.” 

“You should know,” Aziraphale says after a moment, his voice a bit broken, “ _My_ people weren’t any better. They say they were, but they _weren't_.” 

“Angel, you don’t have to—” 

“ _No_ , he deserves to know.” Aziraphale spits out. “They wanted the war just as much, if not more. They wanted the end. They wanted all the _worst_ of it, so that they could have everything precisely as _they_ wanted it to be.” 

“And… and you didn’t want that?” 

“No.” Aziraphale’s voice breaks. “No, we didn’t. There were times we didn’t have much hope in fighting, and times we… times _I_ considered doing things that I shudder to think of now, but…” 

“But _you_ happened.” Crowley finishes, “And it didn’t have to come to all that.” 

“But _I_ happened?” Adam repeats, dumbfounded. 

“Don’t go getting a big head about it,” Crowley teases, and he tousles Adam’s Raphaelite curls. Adam makes a face, and scruffs his hair back into place. 

“That’s kind of a lot to worry about.” 

“Well…” Crowley thinks. “I suppose that’s the beauty of it, isn’t it? You threw them all off-course without even really knowing it, and now there _is_ no course. Now, we’re all free to live as we like. No Armageddon, no pressure. Ineffable.” 

Adam is quiet for a long, thoughtful moment. Dog comes bounding back toward them all, short tail waggling furiously and paws muddied. Ineffable, indeed. 

“Yeah,” Adam says finally, kneeling down to scratch Dog behind the ears. “I s’pose so.” 

-

When they make their way back to the house, it’s full of the ambient heat and chaos of cooking. 

“Adam,” Mrs. Young says from the kitchen, where she is crouched, peeking into the oven at the turkey and peeling a potato at the same time. “Set the table for me, please, and then take all your gifts up to your room.” She spots Dog, and his damp, scraggly paws. Her eyes narrow in. “But _first_ give that dog a bath, before he tracks paw prints all over the house. He stays in the garden ’til he’s clean.” 

“Can I… be of any assistance?” Aziraphale asks, smiling amiably. 

“Don’t be silly! You’re our guest.” 

“He loves cooking,” Crowley puts in, placing his hands on Aziraphale’s upper arms and pushing him toward the kitchen. To be honest, Aziraphale probably loves food more than he loves cooking, but he beams enthusiastically at Mrs. Young all the same. 

“I do, and I’d love to be of help!” 

Mrs. Young nods, then, and hands him the half-peeled potato. Behind them, Adam sneaks past, holding Dog to his chest, on his way to the bathroom to clean off muddy paws. 

-

That leaves Crowley and Mr. Young. Crowley’s never really done that much socializing with humans, at least not outside of work. Not all on his own. But it would be rude to just ignore him, wouldn’t it? They haven’t actually properly spoken since… well, not since the night Adam was born, surely, and even that had been fairly brief. And what do you say to a man like Mr. Young? _‘I notice you seem to prefer dressing like your own granddad, what’s that all about?’_

No. Definitely not. 

Mr. Young is in the sitting room, reading an actual paper newspaper. His reading glasses are low on his nose, and his slippered feet are crossed at the ankles atop a small footstool. He’s sitting in a high-backed armchair in front of the fire, mumbling quietly to himself about whatever it is he’s reading. It would be rude to interrupt this picture-perfect performance of fatherhood, wouldn’t it? All that’s missing is the pipe, and that’s only because in his last fit of setting the world right post-Armageddon, Adam had apparently done away with his father’s nicotine addiction and, for good measure, all of his pipes. 

Mr. Young seems to sense Crowley hovering in the doorway, though. He peers over the top of his newspaper, and raises an eyebrow. 

“No need to stand on ceremony, come and sit down.” 

So Crowley does, perching at the edge of the sofa cushion in a way that leaves all of his muscles tense. He feels set adrift without Aziraphale by his side to tease, or at least Adam or Mrs. Young to chat with. He could understand where he stood, with them. Mr. Young is like an argyle-clad brick wall. 

An argyle-clad brick wall that rather surprises Crowley by carefully folding shut _The Tadfield Advertiser_ and placing it down on the coffee table. He removes his reading glasses, as well, and fixes Crowley with a look. 

“Well,” Mr. Young starts, folding his hands, “It was good of you two to come.” Crowley nods, unsure of where he’s going with this. “I know you and Deirdre haven’t… spoken much in recent years,” Mr. Young continues, “Or, well. I assume you haven’t. She certainly never mentioned you to me. And I would guess she never mentioned us to _you_ , either.” He seems ill at ease with this. The idea that his wife would ever hide something from him. 

“Er…” Crowley says, before deciding to go along with it. “Yeah, no.” 

“I hope… I hope I haven’t given her any reason to think she should keep you away on _my_ account. That she might’ve been afraid I would… judge… you two.” Mr. Young frowns, his mustache and eyebrows furrowing almost identically. “I don’t think I have, but… well. You find out your wife has a secret brother, and you start to wonder if you should’ve… _asked_.” 

“Sure,” Crowley manages, feeling out of his depths. 

“And… she and I have been together more than 15 years, all told. And we’ve known each other even longer. Since uni. And she never breathed a word. _Never_.” Mr. Young stops, regains control of his voice. “I hate to think that you were already out of her life by the time she was… what, 20? If that?” 

Crowley says nothing. He knows where this is going. Aziraphale had already done this bit, by accident, just by going along with Mrs. Young’s assumption about his and Mr. Young’s supposed religious family. Answers and justifications and bald-faced lies for why he’s never visited or been mentioned are already springing to mind. It’s just a question of which will _work_. 

“I felt I should…” Mr. Young stops to consider his words. “I know it can be very difficult to tell, especially when you haven’t seen someone in a while, but Deirdre and I spoke a bit when you were out with Adam. She says… she says she hopes there are no hard feelings and I, well, I wanted to make sure that you knew… whatever falling out it was the two of you had, or that you had with the family, or whatever else it might have been… it’s all long since been forgiven.” 

Lightning may well have struck. It’s difficult to tell. 

“Holy hell.” Crowley’s body feels suddenly very, very far away. 

“I hope I haven’t overstepped,” Mr. Young says. Crowley just shakes his head, barely perceptible. Emotion floods him, too much and too strong and too stupid. 

It doesn’t mean anything. Mr. Young has no idea what he’s saying. But that doesn’t take the weight away from the words. The thought. The concept. 

Benediction, undeserved. Unasked for. Just offered, willy-nilly. 

He’d been so sure Mr. Young would bumble in and ask for all the gory details about how he’d lost touch with his alleged family. So sure he’d be able to fend off any questions with a shrug and a smirk and a quick little lie, easy as breathing. _‘Oh, you know how it goes. I fell in with a bad crowd. I was such a little shit. I would’ve thrown me out, too.’_ It would’ve been so easy. So damnably easy. Instead, Crowley feels choked and cold all over. 

Mr. Young clears his throat, avuncular and blustering. 

“It can’t have been easy to come here, not knowing where you stood. But Deirdre and Adam have been so glad to see you. And I… erm… wanted to thank you. For coming.” 

Having said his bit, Mr. Young picks up the newspaper again. This time he pulls out a section and offers it to Crowley— Entertainment. Crowley takes it, absently. His hands are shaking. He makes no move to open his section of the paper. 

“That… car of yours,” Mr. Young says, changing the subject easily and flicking the paper open. “It’s quite impressive.” 

“Oh,” Crowley says, still feeling rather numb with shock. “Er, thank you.” 

“What year is it?” 

“It’s a 1926 Bentley.” 

Mr. Young gives a low, appreciative whistle. 

“Must cost you a pretty penny keeping that thing up and running.” 

“I do most of the maintenance myself, to be honest. Bit of a hobby.” 

“Good lord.” Mr. Young’s eyes widen. 

They spend the rest of the hour talking vintage cars: the conversational equivalent of stepping out onto black ice, with arms outstretched for balance. 

-

In the kitchen, Aziraphale is wearing one of Mrs. Young’s aprons. It’s teal, and has a pattern of cats, fish, and little balls of yarn on it, a slim pocket across the chest for slotting in a spatula, and magenta lace trim. He’s been put in charge of the veg and a few other side dishes, while she works on assembling the trifle. The brussel sprouts are coming along nicely, and the potatoes and carrots and onions are all in the oven, roasting. Soon it’ll be time to make gravy, and put everything on the nice plates. 

“Does this look _any_ good?” Mrs. Young asks, frustrated, stepping back to squint at the layers of her trifle. 

“Beautiful!” Aziraphale tells her, as he checks the turkey and gives it a baste (and a miracle, to moisten it up a bit where the baster isn’t helping). 

“Angel—” Crowley pokes his head into the kitchen, almost bumping Aziraphale as he switches gears back from the turkey to the saucepan of cranberries, which are just about ready to pop on the stove. Just need a bit of citrus. Crowley hesitates. “Sorry. I didn’t—”

“Not to worry!” says Mrs. Young, “We’re nearly ready.” 

“Are you all right?” Aziraphale asks, putting down the lemon zester, and turning to look at Crowley in concern. Crowley is rather paler than usual, with an air of nonchalance about him that feels forced even to Aziraphale, who is generally not good at reading these things. 

“Fine,” Crowley says. “Fine, fine. The Queen’s speech is on, so…” 

“I’m sure you’re welcome to join—” Aziraphale suggests. 

“No, I…” Crowley trails off, uneasily. “I just… thought I’d see if I could borrow you for a word, but, erm… never mind. You’re busy.” 

“Are you certain you’re all right?” Aziraphale asks again, more quietly this time. He places a hand, gentle, on Crowley’s arm. 

“I’ll be fine.” 

“You can say if you’re not.” Aziraphale says, still speaking quietly, trying to meet Crowley’s eyes, while Crowley’s gaze is fixed somewhere around knee level, not looking up. “The sprouts don’t really _need_ me. I suspect the Youngs prefer them a bit over-cooked. And the cranberries aren’t even on the heat yet.” 

“How about I set the table?” Crowley suggests, taking a step back, and raising his voice and his eyes to address Mrs. Young, expression deceptively bright. “Where’s the china?” 

“There’s a hutch in the dining room,” Mrs. Young tells him. “Adam can help, if you need.” 

“I think he was still bringing his new things up to his room,” Crowley says, “Probably got distracted. No trouble.” He smiles, tight-lipped, and ducks back out of the kitchen again. 

Aziraphale watches after him, brow furrowed with worry. 

“You two are very sweet together,” Mrs. Young says, interrupting his thoughts, and smiling a little bit fondly. Aziraphale flushes. “I mean it,” she says, “It’s nice.” 

Aziraphale frowns, and focuses his attention on the sprouts. He’s been stirring them periodically, like making pasta. He’s not sure that’s entirely right, but Mrs. Young hasn’t corrected him yet. 

“I suspect it must be a bit difficult for him,” he says, eventually. “Being here, I mean. He’s not really used to family. He’s a bit accustomed to assuming the worst of people. Though I suppose he'd say I'm accustomed to assuming the best, despite all evidence to the contrary.” 

Mrs. Young nods. 

“The first time I met Arthur’s parents— or, well, your and Arthur’s parents… it was one of the strangest weekends of my life. I think your mum hated me as soon as she saw me, but she was so _nice_ about it. I can’t even imagine how much harder it must be when you’ve already been together for so long.” 

Aziraphale smiles a bit wryly at that. 

“You have no idea.” 

-

The table is set— three forks per setting, chargers underneath the plates, wine glasses spotless. Every element of each setting is exactly equidistant from the others, and each place identical to the other four, down to the millimeter. Crowley’s poured the wine into an elegantly modern glass decanter, which the Youngs certainly hadn’t owned that morning. Mrs. Young plates the food in the kitchen, and Aziraphale carries each dish through to the dining room, arranging them artfully on the table. Crowley hadn’t thought to put down a protector before the table cloth, but it also hadn’t occurred to him that warm plates might damage the wood, so they simply don’t, even as the dishes stay piping hot, waiting for the turkey to arrive. In the kitchen, Mr. Young carves. 

Before long, they’re gathered. Adam’s combed his hair, though the difference it makes is marginal at best, and changed into a nicer shirt and slightly less grubby jeans. Mrs. Young runs to the bedroom to put on a matching necklace and earring set, probably a gift from that morning, if the smile Mr. Young sends her way is any indication. 

Adam directs Crowley and Aziraphale to sit together on one side of the table, and takes the seat across from them. Apparently the head and foot of the table are for mum and dad. Mrs. Young brings in the platter of turkey and sets it at the center of the table, Mr. Young behind her with the hastily whipped up gravy. 

“This looks lovely,” Mr. Young says, kissing Deirdre on the cheek before taking his seat. 

“Thank you, darling.” She smiles, soft and proud. “Adam, will you say grace, please?” 

Adam takes his parents’ hands, and Mr. Young takes one of Aziraphale’s, Mrs. Young one of Crowley’s. Exchanging a leery look, Aziraphale takes up Crowley’s other hand in his. 

All human eyes are shut Adam leads them in a simple, impatient prayer. This is lucky, because Crowley’s fingertips begin smoking lightly by around the fourth word. 

“Amen,” Adam finishes. 

“Amen,” Mrs. and Mr. Young echo. Aziraphale’s sounds much closer to the Hebrew _ah-main_ , and Crowley just mumbles _‘men_ , pulling his hands back quickly and shaking them out underneath the table. 

“Wine?” he asks, hopping up to take the decanter from the sideboard. 

(Aziraphale has to stop him short of pouring a glass for Adam, but to be fair, it’s only very recently that humans got so uptight about giving wine to kids.) 

-

“That’s not a real word!” Crowley protests, for seemingly the forty-ninth time that night. They’ve had their crackers and enjoyed a beautiful, lopsided trifle, before heading back into the sitting room for tea and a board game, and more reading for Mr. Young. He’s just starting a new paperback mystery novel. It stars a jar-chinned, grizzled detective, who is very transparently in love with his idealistic junior detective. It had been his Christmas gift from Adam. The book is the second in a series, but Adam hadn’t realized that. 

“It _is_!” Aziraphale insists, his eyes fiercely bright beneath his paper crown. 

“Adam, what does the dictionary say?” Mrs. Young asks, wearily. Adam starts flipping through as quickly as he can manage. He’d once thought it would be fun to read the whole dictionary, front to back. It’d been raining that day, and Pepper and Brian had both been sick in bed, but he’d gotten bored by around the _AD_ s, and had decided not to bother. He’s realizing now that he could probably get all the same information just from chatting with Aziraphale, if he did it for long enough. 

“ _Bollocks_ that’s a real word! Not _these_ days. No one’s said that since about the third century,” Crowley grumbles as Adam flips. 

“Fourteenth, at most.” 

“ _Worst_ century.” 

“Yes, you’ve made your feelings _very_ well known.” 

“Well, Adam?” 

“It… it’s in here.” 

“HA!” Aziraphale crows, taking a sip of his wine. The bottle’s filled their glasses far more times than it should have been able to. It’s been mostly Crowley doing the pouring, though, and mostly Crowley and Aziraphale imbibing, or Mr. and Mrs. Young might’ve noticed. The bottle will be miraculously full and sealed again in the morning. 

“What’s it mean, then?” Crowley asks, grumpily. 

“Agreeable, pleasing, satisfying.” Adam reads. 

“You see! You’re just cross we wouldn’t let you play _susurrus_ spelt _S-U-S-S-U-R-U-S_.” 

“All my tiles are S and U! I can’t do bloody anything!” 

“All right, all right,” Mrs. Young interrupts. “So, that’s… Q-U-E-M-E-F-U-L… 22 points, and 50 for using all your tiles, Aziraphale. Total of 72 points.” She writes it down. 

Aziraphale smiles, angelic and smug. 

The game continues. Mrs. Young plays ‘quip’ off of the U in ‘quemeful’, since they all know Crowley has three U’s in his hand, and that means there won’t be any others coming up. Adam takes an age deliberating, before Mr. Young finally comes over and whispers to him that he has all the letters he needs to spell ‘think’. Just to be contrary, Adam plays ‘knit’ instead. Crowley turns a spare M into ‘mu’, freeing himself of one of his U’s. He groans when he pulls his new letter from the bag, though, so it doesn’t seem to have helped. 

They go around again. Aziraphale earns 30 points on ‘volupty’ with a double word score. He says it means pleasures or delights. Crowley discards another couple of letters in a half-hearted word, but this time something gleeful starts to burn in his eyes when he grabs his new tiles. His next few plays are small and simple, nothing significant. But eventually when his turn comes back around, he’s grinning sinfully as he places his letters down one-by-one, each with a satisfying _snap_. 

“ _Syzygies_?” Aziraphale reads, once all of the tiles are down, around a G from Adam’s earlier ‘egg’. 

“It’s the alignment of three celestial objects,” Crowley says, airily. “The sun, the earth, and the moon or a planet.” 

“How can that… be plural?” 

“With an _S_ on the end of it.” 

-

After Adam has been shepherded off to sleep, with Mrs. Young on his tail to make sure that he brushes his teeth and doesn’t let Dog into the bed, Mr. Young comes up to them again. He’s halfway through his novel, a finger clasped between the pages to hold his spot. 

“It’s late,” he says. “I’m going to go and do the washing up, but we do have a guest room. If you don’t mind waiting a bit, I can go and make up the bed with fresh linens.” 

“Oh,” says Aziraphale, a bit taken aback. “That’s very kind of you to offer.” 

“Yes, thanks,” says Crowley, “Erm. We can take care of the washing up, though, can’t we, Angel? Adam probably woke them up at the crack of dawn.” 

“He did, at that.” Mr Young admits, a bit rueful. “He doesn’t even believe in Father Christmas anymore, but I suppose gifts are still exciting, even without the magical elf in the North Pole.” 

A perplexed expression flits across Aziraphale’s eyes. They’re impossibly blue, heavenly bright, shining out from beneath his robin’s egg crown. He wears it with more regality than a paper crown has any right to lend, slightly askew in his blond curls. It occurs to Crowley that this might be the first Aziraphale’s really heard about the significance of the man in the red suit who started showing up at Christmastime over the course of the last century or so. 

“Quite,” Aziraphale agrees, faintly. Crowley snickers. 

“I’ll go and make sure the guest room is decent,” Mr. Young says, extricating himself from the sitting room. 

“Miracle the dishes?” Crowley asks once he’s gone. 

“ _No_!” Aziraphale says, aghast. He’s flushed. Maybe out of outrage, but maybe just from tipsiness. “He’ll _notice_!” 

(They do miracle the dishes, but not before hand-washing the first several, just in case Mr. Young comes back and catches them at it.) 

-

Once they’ve been led into the little guest room, with its bed all made up and a dim bedside lamp lit, Mr. Young leaves them be. It’s the first they’ve been alone all day. But also not, in a sense, because there is always a certain solitude in guarding a secret together, even when it’s not a secret that could lead to the end of days. 

Crowley stretches and groans, his back popping loudly. Aziraphale has collapsed onto the soft mattress with a sigh, still fully clothed. 

“Should we…?” Crowley asks, taking a step toward the bed, where Aziraphale is resting against the headboard. 

“Mmm?” 

“I suppose… I wasn’t sure if we’d sleep, or not…” 

“You can sleep if you’d like.” 

“Right.” Crowley nods, and shrugs off his jacket, then sits on the bed. He’s unbuttoning his shirt when Aziraphale interrupts. 

“I didn’t realize you don’t sleep in your clothes,” he says, a touch bemused. 

“Oh,” Crowley says, “Erm, yeah. Comfort, and that. You want to be... comfortable when you’re asleep. Took me a while to get the hang of it, ‘til I worked that out.” 

Aziraphale hums, and Crowley pulls off his dark glasses, revealing the yellow of his eyes for the first time all day. 

“I didn’t get to ask, before,” Aziraphale says, smoothing the bedspread, “Is everything all right? You don’t wish we _were_ going home, do you?” 

“Hm? Why would I wish that?” 

“It seemed like… you might’ve had a disagreement with Mr. Young?” 

“Oh!” Crowley says, flushing and leaning over to pull off his snakeskin boots, “No, erm. Nothing so… dramatic. It was just that talking to him made me feel a bit like I was… molting?” 

“Molting,” Aziraphale repeats. 

“Snake thing, I guess.” Crowley shrugs, pulling off his socks. “He was really being very nice. Talking to me about Deirdre like she was my sister—” 

“Because you _told_ him she was your sister.” 

“Oh, shut up. I just felt…” He sighs, not sure what to say, or what he really means, and scrubs a hand through his hair. “Like I had to get out. Of the house. Of my skin? I don’t know.” 

“Mm.” Aziraphale hums. 

“Did you and Mrs. Young have a nice time cooking?” 

“Yes, wonderful.” 

“Well, thank goodness for that. Maybe we’ll be invited back for Easter.” 

“Maybe. I liked that letters game,” Aziraphale says, “I could get it for the shop. People might get so distracted by the letters that they forget to buy books.” 

“Hm.” Crowley shrugs. “Or they’ll stay longer.” 

He’s down to an undershirt, black, a pair of boxer briefs, black, and his socks, black. The dark glasses rest on the bedside table, reflecting the light of the bedside lamp, and Aziraphale latches onto them as somewhere innocuous to fix his eyes. Crowley’s get-up reminds him rather suddenly of sitting in that bathtub in Hell, and he can’t quite bear to look. It would be practically indecent, anyway, with Crowley so exposed. 

“Mrs. Young was telling me she thinks it’s good for Adam to have us in his life. Healthy,” Aziraphale says, after a moment, “That she’s never really been close with any of her aunts or uncles, and considers that a bit of a loss.” 

“Doubt she’d think that if she knew who we really are, Angel.” 

“She said she thinks it’s always good for a child to have a trustworthy adult they can go to when they have a problem they don’t feel comfortable taking to their parents. Or even just… different adults to see and learn from. Different sorts of lives to look up to.” 

“Yeah,” Crowley says, grinning a bit impishly. “That’s us. The ideal role models.” He lies back against the pillows and pulls the blankets up and over his long legs. 

“I thought it was a lovely sentiment!” Aziraphale huffs, indignant. 

Crowley’s smile has softened into something more affectionate, as he lies back against the pillows. 

“Take off your shoes, jacket, and waistcoat before you get in the bed, at least.” 

“Oh, right.” 

So Aziraphale does, a bit hesitant. It reminds him of older days, long gone past, when they’d worn chitons and togas, or kalasiris and shendyt. Of bare legs and bare feet in the mud, of the sun on his face while they’d spoken in the Garden. Which he knows is silly; he’s still got plenty of layers on, but… he finds he maybe does understand, just a little bit, of what Crowley means by that feeling of _molting_ , of feeling exposed, and of wanting to find something safe or freeing in the paring back. He doesn’t want to escape, though. Maybe it’s not quite the same. He hangs his jacket and waistcoat carefully in the little closet, and lines his shoes up underneath. 

“Get under the blessed blankets,” Crowley grumbles, eyes already mostly closed, so Aziraphale obeys, slouching into the bed until he’s lying flat. The feather pillow beneath his head is nice, admittedly, and the mattress is soft and forgiving. For a moment he feels peaceful, feels safe and free. His belt digs, though, and his feet are entirely too warm under the blankets in his argyle socks. He finds himself thinking of the _wrinkles_ he must be creating in his shirt and trousers, and dreading them. He squirms a bit, waiting for sleep to find him in the dark and quiet room, while Crowley lies beside him, all curled up and already drifting off. 

“Is this it?” Aziraphale whispers, after a moment of lying still and silent. Crowley’s eyes dart back open, half-dazed, as he tries to find what it is that woke him. 

“Hm?” 

“I don’t seem to be doing it. Am I comfortable enough, do you think?” 

“Oh, for heaven’ssss sssake—” Crowley lets his eyes fall shut again, and snaps his fingers, without so much as sitting up in bed. Suddenly, Aziraphale’s remaining clothes are neatly folded on the dresser top, and have been replaced with... a fleece tartan pajama set. There’s a book on the bedside table that hadn’t been there before, too: the novel Aziraphale had been reading the night before, complete with his little bookmark between pages 236 and 237. 

“Now, _shh_.” 

“But—” 

“ _Shh_.” And Crowley throws an arm, heavy with sleep, around Aziraphale’s middle, his long body snaking up alongside Aziraphale’s— bends matching curves, and ins matching outs. “W’should try’n visit Warlock sometime,” Crowley half-mumbles, face pressed against the place where Aziraphale’s shoulder meets his neck. “Poor kid.” 

“True.” Aziraphale agrees, murmuring. “And I suppose we wouldn’t need to lie to the Dowlings to do it, either.” 

“Nah. ‘Least not a new one.” 

Aziraphale huffs a laugh at that, and Crowley smiles a little, mostly asleep. Cautiously, slowly, Aziraphale lifts a hand to take his book from the bedside table, propping it open one-handed. The other arm has Crowley lying on top of it, and he’s already starting to snore, just a tiny bit. Even more gently, with even more trepidation, Aziraphale bends the elbow of the arm Crowley is lying on, and cards his fingers through ginger hair. A furrow in Crowley’s brow smooths out, and without really realizing it, Aziraphale presses a tiny kiss to the worry line it leaves behind. 

The wind is howling outside and the night is dark and dismal, but it feels far, far away from the cozy little sanctuary they’ve been afforded. Cuddled deep within their warm nest of blankets, Aziraphale reads throughout one of the longest nights of the year, while Crowley snores beside him.


End file.
